I’d shut off my phone and my tablet and I was wearing a sleep mask. My family, along with Louise and Adam, had been trying to track me down, but I couldn’t deal with anyone, not yet, not even with Abby, as I slumped in my middle seat in economy on the plane back to New York (I’d put the ticket on my last functioning credit card). There was no way I could doze, or slow my pulse to a normal range, or cajole myself into believing that in the history of the universe, a gay couple splitting up on live global TV was a blip, a speck of LGBTQ info-dust, and that the whole gaypocalypse had undoubtedly stopped trending on every social media platform hours ago. As I’d passed through Heathrow wearing sunglasses and a knitted wool hat pulled almost to my chin, I’d glimpsed headlines on the newsstands and video monitors: “Edgar Denounces American Man-Slut”; “The Prince And The Pipsqueak”; “Royal Raunchgate”; and “GLAAD Condemns Carter Ogden Because Cheating Isn’t a Gay Civil Right.” A haughty woman on TMZ was saying, “If my man kissed somebody else, I’d be all, ‘Bye, Carter. See you in hell!’”

What just happened? Had I betrayed Edgar, or had he overreacted, and why, before I’d started ignoring my devices, hadn’t he reached out to me in any way? What was I guilty of? Why had I gotten together with Callum, and let him kiss me, and why hadn’t I been more conscious of my surroundings? And above all else, was anyone, especially me, surprised that I’d twisted my greatest chance for love into the most epic and public cataclysm?

I couldn’t begin to sort anything out, but one aspect was certain: I’d made this happen. All those months ago I’d sat in St. Patrick’s and prayed for love and the largest possible life. My prayer had been answered, but with an expiration date.

Because I was Cinderella Ogden. Because I should’ve known that sooner or later my prince would catch on to how unlovable I was, how inadequate in every way, and he’d leave. So I’d sped up the inevitable. Ruth Ginsburg was about to tell me something, but I’d stopped listening, especially to figments of my imagination; Ruth was gone, which was something else, on a very long list of truths, I’d be forced to accept.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a flight attendant, tapping my shoulder, “would you like to purchase a beverage?” As I shook my head no, he whispered, “And I’m so sorry about you and Prince Edgar. I thought you were adorable together.”

“I’m not going to judge you,” added the voice of a second flight attendant. “Because Callum Turner is seriously hot, and I bet you’re feeling like crap right now. So if you’d like a cocktail, we won’t charge you.”